


Faithfully

by alafaye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:13:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alafaye/pseuds/alafaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John continues. (Post Reichenbach.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faithfully

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [love bingo](http://alafaye.livejournal.com/337489.html) and the prompt 'faithfulness'. Plot inspired by LJ's mahmfic's prompt.

John unlocked the front door and scooped up the mail in the hall. There were a few things for Mrs. Hudson--bills, junk--and he left these on the table for her. There were two bills for himself, for the flat upstairs, and a junk invite to a new gym that had opened a few blocks over. At the end of the pile, though, was a letter addressed to Sherlock. 

John cleared his throat around the sudden block and took his--and Sherlock's--mail upstairs. If he left it downstairs or in the box for the mailman to take back, Mrs. Hudson would see it and John had only just gotten her calmed from last night's cry. No, the sensible thing to do was take it upstairs and leave it on the mantle where surely Mycroft would be by to get it.

He wasn't sure why Mycroft was concerned with gathering together Sherlock's mail and other odds and ends--John was quite able to throw out useless mail and pack away his flat mate's things. It didn't matter that it was taking him a considerable amount of time to pack it all up; the point stood that everyday, he put together another box of Sherlock's things. Slowly but surely, the job was getting done.

Mycroft never said anything about his pace, thankfully. Only stopped by every week to whisk the boxes away to his home or a storage site or wherever it was that Sherlock's things were going. John sometimes wondered if he would walk into a second hand shop and see something of Sherlock's for sale. (Mind, these times never lasted long because John could not picture Mycroft giving away anything of Sherlock's. It just didn't fit with the picture Mycroft presented.)

There were things that John couldn't bear to disturb--Sherlock's mess on their desk, his socks. No matter how it looked, Sherlock always exclaimed that he had a system, an order. (And there was no way that John would ever mess up the sock index, not even in the days when he, too, thought with absolute certainty that Sherlock was coming back. There had been one too many times that Sherlock would yell at John about the index and how important it was and couldn't John just understand? John had never understood, never would--that bastard, couldn't he have explained at least that mystery?--but it did not change the fact that John could not disturb the sock index even after all this time.)

He set the letter on the mantle and went into the kitchen for a cuppa. As it steeped, he looked out into the flat--what he could see of it--and decided today he would pack away a box of books. His own collection was getting a bit too big for his bedside table and he needed the room. 

Thus, armed with his tea and a sandwich, he set about putting together a box. 

No, he decided as he worked, Sherlock's things were not going to end up in a second hand shop. Wherever they went, it was where John (or Sherlock, some hopeful part of John whispered) could one day get them back and put them in their proper place--at 221B, with John.


End file.
